The 5 Senses Poem Challenge

[GuiltyPleasure]

From Jamison

Taste: peppermint
Touch: warm skin
Smell: snow
Sound: owls
Sight: Northern Lights



From CeriseNoire

Sight: horses
Sound: cackle
Touch: scars
Taste: cherries
Smell: grass

 

[Guest]

Sight: horses
Sound: cackle
Touch: scars
Taste: cherries
Smell: grass

Run and Fade

Heather and grass are kicked up
as wild horses run wide-open.
They are protected on Rainier
as I know I am here with you.

A fading smoker's cough and cackle
is but a whisper against thundering hooves.
This scar under my eye is just that,
a wound mending,
same as the tears you brush away.

Though at times you push, I still resist.
I can't. I don't want to talk about it. Not yet.
We find I'm artful in changing the subject.
I say, while feeding you cherries:

The best come from here, they are
the sweetest like freedom is for the Mustangs
and quieter, perhaps one day, for me too.



Sight: the world
Sound: white noise
Touch: winter's moonlight
Taste: snow
Smell: cold

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Sight: the world
Sound: white noise
Touch: winter's moonlight
Taste: snow
Smell: cold

Before I open the door, I play God and draw
a green tipped brush across the black canvas
of imagination, inventing the world. I block in houses, fudging
the colors with water to fill the gaps of memory
and then come the attendant bushes, trees, flowers,
cars, mailboxes, street

the street I grew up on. I fill it in and fill it in until it is a song
too big to sing to though one can sing in it, join
the white noise of the neighborhood's reverie. Before
I open the door I pluck the yellow from the sun
and edge in a rabbit man,
foxing across the silver of moon
trails of cold vapor that never rise, merely melt in the nose
and drip down to lips,

whisper thin denial and cover up like
white sheets from which the blood was bleached.
It all gets hushed

by the soft paper I pull
from my coat pocket

before I open the door
to a world that is identical and contrast
to the crumple
in my curled fingers.





See: clothes on the floor
feel: flutter
smell: blood
hear: echo
taste: shame

 

[bluerains]

Before I open the door, I play God and draw
a green tipped brush across the black canvas
of imagination, inventing the world. I block in houses, fudging
the colors with water to fill the gaps of memory
and then come the attendant bushes, trees, flowers,
cars, mailboxes, street

the street I grew up on. I fill it in and fill it in until it is a song
too big to sing to though one can sing in it, join
the white noise of the neighborhood's reverie. Before
I open the door I pluck the yellow from the sun
and edge in a rabbit man,
foxing across the silver of moon
trails of cold vapor that never rise, merely melt in the nose
and drip down to lips,

whisper thin denial and cover up like
white sheets from which the blood was bleached.
It all gets hushed

by the soft paper I pull
from my coat pocket

before I open the door
to a world that is identical and contrast
to the crumple
in my curled fingers.





See: sunning sky
feel: heats joints
smell:salt entangles
hear: waves crash
taste: another day eaten

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Sunshine

(I guess bluerains is working on her poem and has marked a place for it? I look forward to seeing it completed.)

From bluerains
See: sunning sky
feel: heats joints
smell:salt entangles
hear: waves crash
taste: another day eaten


She said the surface of the sun
whenever I close my eyes I dream of it
It's all I dream about. I know what she sees:
It is the fire ocean calling to us as we struggle
to reignite it. It is calling us home, its solar winds
pulling us like hands reaching from the ocean.

That is what I see when I close my eyes, the ocean
what I hear. Waves crash in my ears, encouraging
me forward to do what must be done. Salts bake
in my nostrils--the price of talking to God. I never
believed I'd be home in two years. Nearer
the dying star, I feel my bones expanding
with heat, my knuckles swollen as I grip
the handle and turn. Mace was right. The
only important thing is the timely delivery
of this sacrificial meal. I come closer and the sky
is fire. The ocean is dancing flame rising over
me in a wave of light which kisses
me to ash.





See: ants
hear: trees drinking
smell: sun warming
feel: shade
taste: paper

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

CeriseNoire post # 13

Taste: soap
Touch: wool
Smell: decay
Sound: laughter
Sight: city

Shearing Shed

I’m just a city girl,
sheep always struck me
as silly beasts
and here they lie
submissive as the shears
buzz over their skin,
the wool falling away,
not quite a sweater,
the ewe springs free,
lighter now and younger.
The men talk as they work,
laughter spilling out above
the baa-baa bleating.
The air in this decaying shed
has the soapy taste of lanoline
that I never will forget.
I take the fleece, still warm,
and press it into the crate
with others now cold
and forgotten by the newly
nude flock.


From PandoraGlitters

See: ants
hear: trees drinking
smell: sun warming
feel: shade
taste: paper

 

[bluerains]

(I guess bluerains is working on her poem and has marked a place for it? I look forward to seeing it completed.)

From bluerains
See: sunning sky
feel: heats joints
smell:salt entangles
hear: waves crash
taste: another day eaten


She said the surface of the sun
whenever I close my eyes I dream of it
It's all I dream about. I know what she sees:
It is the fire ocean calling to us as we struggle
to reignite it. It is calling us home, its solar winds
pulling us like hands reaching from the ocean.

That is what I see when I close my eyes, the ocean
what I hear. Waves crash in my ears, encouraging
me forward to do what must be done. Salts bake
in my nostrils--the price of talking to God. I never
believed I'd be home in two years. Nearer
the dying star, I feel my bones expanding
with heat, my knuckles swollen as I grip
the handle and turn. Mace was right. The
only important thing is the timely delivery
of this sacrificial meal. I come closer and the sky
is fire. The ocean is dancing flame rising over
me in a wave of light which kisses
me to ash.





See: ants
hear: trees drinking
smell: sun warming
feel: shade
taste: paper

Thanks..
I put down my thoughts but, could not finish the work...so here is a brief outline
of what I was pondering...

Lizard Lounge

Just before dawn,
strolling beyond the boardwalk,
there are turtle triangle tracks
in energy beams
from the smooth shell rimmed rocks.
This silent world
heats the joints of my spherical spine.
Salt from the sea entangles
breath sparked
music of a waterborn heaven.
Waves crash slumber covered surrender,
as Florida feels another reality of my day eaten;
and I , again am her banquet horizontal...

 

[PandoraGlitters]

I'm going to offer up the unused list in hopes to keep this thread alive.

See: ants
hear: trees drinking
smell: sun warming
feel: shade
taste: paper

Any takers?

 

[unpredictablebijou]

I'm going to offer up the unused list in hopes to keep this thread alive.

See: ants
hear: trees drinking
smell: sun warming
feel: shade
taste: paper

Any takers?

It's a worthy list and an excellent challenge. I'll help bump it. However, if I try to write poetry with ants, it always turns into the same thing:

I met a traveller from an ant-ique land
Who said, Six vast and trunkless legs of stone
stand in the desert...

bj

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Ah but Bijou, bumping it thus breaks the chain, doesn't it? I think my lists are jinxed. Maybe someone else should suggest one and I'll just quit doing the lists and focus on the poems already.

 

[Guest]

See: ants
hear: trees drinking
smell: sun warming
feel: shade
taste: paper

Spring (c. years ago)

It was a long time ago, I remember
spring in her sister city Albuquerque.
In the midst of busy, heavy industry,
black smoke curled from smoke stacks
was a park, purple elms, evergreens
and cherry blossoms. All trees drank
the hazy rain. I sat on the stone steps

watching ants weave around my muddied
trainer as my ass got wet and colder.
The shade of winter still bit the day,
but I sat there, huddled and hidden while
across the bridge in a Japanese 7-11
she brown-bagged us tall beers in tin cans.

She'd skipped back, black hair stringy,
dripping and fall down beside me.
I'd invertingly taste paper before Yebisu
then her skin; it was the sun warming.
Alcohol flushed her cheeks as little kisses
flamed her neck, collarbone and down.

Out of sight, but in the open, we'd stay there
all day, get drunk then, well, we all know what.
It's where all the younger, good stories go,
getting hotter and bolder each day after.



Taste: vanilla
Touch: something itchy
Smell: coffee
Sound: traffic
Sight: tail lights

 

[normal jean]

looking back

Taste: vanilla
Touch: something itchy
Smell: coffee
Sound: traffic
Sight: tail lights

~~~~~~~~~~~

Vanilla never reminded me
of you, but wool, yes wool
because you knew I was allergic
but tolerated many things, for you.

I could smell the last cup of coffee
you spilled in my car, and yes
it helped my decision along.

The traffic was barely moving
on my way to tell you I was leaving
now, all I can see is the shock
in your eyes and tail lights fading
faster than the setting sun.



taste-cinnamon
touch-wet
see-trees swaying
sound- train whistle
smell- freshly baked bread

 

[PandoraGlitters]

taste-cinnamon
touch-wet
see-trees swaying
sound- train whistle
smell- freshly baked bread

Today I am a kitchen girl, fingers puckered
under sudsed rubber gloves. It is warm
in here, enough to feed the rising yeast.

How the mouth waters in sympathy
with steam rising from the bun. How deliciously
savage, to rip its baked flesh

then salve it with butter, glossing
and firing the lips with cinnamon.
The oven door is open, spilling heat over my back.

Such warmth can keep one anchored
despite the beckoning trees
and the call of trains.



see: wet glass
hear: dripping
taste: honey
feel: rubber
smell: oil

 

[Angeline]

taste-cinnamon
touch-wet
see-trees swaying
sound- train whistle
smell- freshly baked bread

Cinnamom hazelnut kisses
are smilely and wet Coffee
now carried back to bed
where we linger under
an open window watch
the willow sway. It dances
hula sweet and sinuous
shimmery. Today it is
an invitation to the dance
a hula and the stories
that our bodies tell when
we listen to some old pedal steel.

It's the Old Time Radio hour, late
and dark when the train whistle
rolls by, loud and then that long
ribbon of note moaning miles.
4am. The tree is whispering,
bread is baking downstairs rising
yeasty warmth from the radiator.

taste- honey
touch-satin
see-moonlight
sound- piano
smell- perfume

 

[bluerains]

Cinnamom hazelnut kisses
are smilely and wet Coffee
now carried back to bed
where we linger under
an open window watch
the willow sway. It dances
hula sweet and sinuous
shimmery. Today it is
an invitation to the dance
a hula and the stories
that our bodies tell when
we listen to some old pedal steel.

It's the Old Time Radio hour, late
and dark when the train whistle
rolls by, loud and then that long
ribbon of note moaning miles.
4am. The tree is whispering,
bread is baking downstairs rising
yeasty warmth from the radiator.

taste- honey
touch-satin
see-moonlight
sound- piano
smell- perfume

a piano breathes no perfume
its breath plays a moonlight serenade
satin sheet heard
honey hymn played

taste melon
touch prick
see bruise
sound slap
smell sweat

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Refuse

a piano breathes no perfume
its breath plays a moonlight serenade
satin sheet heard
honey hymn played

taste melon
touch prick
see bruise
sound slap
smell sweat

cool and wet it rains summer on my tongue,
juice replenishing succulent
and full

I carry the rind like an offering, sandals slap
pavement, flat
hot surfaces kissing with a smack throwing up
a thorn into the tender arch

under the lifted lid is the bruise of repose
the dank sweat of rot and there
goes the rind, plopped on top to be
baked into rich compost





see: lunar eclipse
hear: howling
feel: vinyl
taste: milk
smell: opium

 

[CeriseNoire]

cool and wet it rains summer on my tongue,
juice replenishing succulent
and full

I carry the rind like an offering, sandals slap
pavement, flat
hot surfaces kissing with a smack throwing up
a thorn into the tender arch

under the lifted lid is the bruise of repose
the dank sweat of rot and there
goes the rind, plopped on top to be
baked into rich compost





see: lunar eclipse
hear: howling
feel: vinyl
taste: milk
smell: opium

He came and went,
her lunar eclipse.
Sweet opiate scent and vinyl heart,
he left her howling,
disheveled,
seeking
to savor,
just one more time,
the milky memory
he always left behind.

see:blood
hear: psalms
feel:bumps
taste:candy
smell:fresh-cut grass

 

[Guest]

see:blood
hear: psalms
feel: bumps
taste: candy
smell: fresh-cut grass

Bali High and Low

She is in the blood when I close my eyes,
a tiny image through capillaries.
I squeeze tighter, see stars,
blank places that I fill. She has her way
with me and then I am

right there on Sansur where Bali whispered.
Kama swept the psalms sending
resort manicured grass, tourists
and their coconut oil baking in the sun.
Not caring that eyes were all around,
I listened, she listened and loved
sticky hot, the sand digging where
it should never be.
The breeze sent supernatural chills
we smoothed with kisses that tasted pink,
alive, so alive, sweeter than any candy.

That's all I have. Memories.
Somewhere, I lost the words
but still I can imagine her that easy,
though, I'd like to soon forget.



See: cloudburst
Hear: murmuring
Feel: a great sadness
Taste: grape seeds
Smell: ozone

 

[Angeline]

Bali High and Low

She is in the blood when I close my eyes,
a tiny image through capillaries.
I squeeze tighter, see stars,
blank places that I fill. She has her way
with me and then I am

right there on Sansur where Bali whispered.
Kama swept the psalms sending
resort manicured grass, tourists
and their coconut oil baking in the sun.
Not caring that eyes were all around,
I listened, she listened and loved
sticky hot, the sand digging where
it should never be.
The breeze sent supernatural chills
we smoothed with kisses that tasted pink,
alive, so alive, sweeter than any candy.

That's all I have. Memories.
Somewhere, I lost the words
but still I can imagine her that easy,
though, I'd like to soon forget.



See: cloudburst
Hear: murmuring
Feel: a great sadness
Taste: grape seeds
Smell: ozone

Cloudburst was three voices
in harmony like ganache smooth
and incorporated singing city
sidewalks, neon promise, many more
voices hushed and excited, faces alit
in garish reflections the shop windows
full of cheap cameras and watches. Bargains!

That's what I remember, the windows
and the murmuring crowds. I compress
it all into a salve. Grapeseed oil, wine drunk
long ago. Compress it into sound and it comes
out Cloudburst, all that jazz, my city
no more because I'm swirled in the snowflakes,
great sadness and fields of ice. Solitude
and smudgy pines. That ozone buzz
is a sense memory beyond the storm.

See: horizon
Hear: echo
Feel: leaves
Taste: honey
Smell: lavender

 

[Guest]

Cloudburst was three voices
in harmony like ganache smooth
and incorporated singing city
sidewalks, neon promise, many more
voices hushed and excited, faces alit
in garish reflections the shop windows
full of cheap cameras and watches. Bargains!

That's what I remember, the windows
and the murmuring crowds. I compress
it all into a salve. Grapeseed oil, wine drunk
long ago. Compress it into sound and it comes
out Cloudburst, all that jazz, my city
no more because I'm swirled in the snowflakes,
great sadness and fields of ice. Solitude
and smudgy pines. That ozone buzz
is a sense memory beyond the storm.

I love this; it's very emotion-stirring. It's so interesting to find how another poet connects with the words another left behind.

 

[Angeline]

I love this; it's very emotion-stirring. It's so interesting to find how another poet connects with the words another left behind.

It's a mutual admiration society. I love your poem, the images and the way you break the lines. It inspired me to write mine.

This is just a great thread, a great challenge idea.

 

[champagne1982]

See: horizon
Hear: echo
Feel: leaves
Taste: honey
Smell: lavender

He plucks fragrance
from the bay tree
weaves into garlands
to hang in kitchens
where wives scent honey
with the leaves, sharp
and brittle dryness
soothed with lavender
echoes pressed
into linen sheet
horizons of prairie
grass memories.

See: jade carving
Hear: guqin music
Feel: silk
Taste: ginger
Smell: lemons

 

[Angeline]

He plucks fragrance
from the bay tree
weaves into garlands
to hang in kitchens
where wives scent honey
with the leaves, sharp
and brittle dryness
soothed with lavender
echoes pressed
into linen sheet
horizons of prairie
grass memories.

See: jade carving
Hear: guqin music
Feel: silk
Taste: ginger
Smell: lemons

Quan Shih Yin is jade carved
pink smooth she is cool in my palm.
Her eyes reveal nothing she has
no attachment to my warm skin
where she reposes suspended
in the valley of breasts

she has no attachment
to time or space: a quiet stone
whose empty face echoes
shell songs of gardens fragrant
with lemon trees, a hidden willow bench,
a porcelain bowl of ginger root
where sharp tang resposes
in guqin notes, a quiet resonance
of silk plucked from my imagination.

See: waves
Hear: pedal steel guitar
Feel: sand
Taste: cotton candy
Smell: ocean

 

[Guest]

See: waves
Hear: pedal steel guitar
Feel: sand
Taste: cotton candy
Smell: ocean

Cutter

I bit the inside of my cheek
when she told me about the birds
and bees. I had cotton candy
stuck in pre-molars and tasted blood.

She told me about the birds
and bees. It was like
a pedal steel guitar's last note
sliding a razor down my spine, ending
in 'why now?' I faked clueless well,

staring at the waves.
They were white-capped cutting
the shoreline. And the metaphor
wasn't lost to me, it filleted my feet
as I kicked off flip-flops in the sand, running.

The ocean spray stung my eyes and I cried,
not because of the salt
but how she pretended to be
my mother. Where was she
when I needed her? Not there,

Not then. Now, when it was
way too late. She'd never know.



See: crocus(es)
Hear: the furnace kicking on
Feel: cold
Taste: green tea
Smell: simmering soup

 

[Angeline]

Cutter

I bit the inside of my cheek
when she told me about the birds
and bees. I had cotton candy
stuck in pre-molars and tasted blood.

She told me about the birds
and bees. It was like
a pedal steel guitar's last note
sliding a razor down my spine, ending
in 'why now?' I faked clueless well,

staring at the waves.
They were white-capped cutting
the shoreline. And the metaphor
wasn't lost to me, it filleted my feet
as I kicked off flip-flops ready to run.

The ocean spray stung my eyes and I cried,
not because of the salt
but how she pretended to be
my mother. Where was she
when I needed her? Not there,

Not then. Now, when it was
way too late. She'd never know.



See: crocus(es)
Hear: the furnace kicking on
Feel: cold
Taste: green tea
Smell: simmering soup

This is good. You seem to be taking lots of chances in your poetry now, trying on different styles and approaches, and it's moving your writing ahead in very interesting ways.